


What’s The Point of Playing Bass If Your Own Singer Doesn’t Even Care?

by supergrover24



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: 5 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supergrover24/pseuds/supergrover24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick looks nervous and pissed off all at once, and Pete knows he's crossed some line right then, like he's moved from "good buddy if slightly overprotective" to "irrational asshole who may or may not have a drug problem" and shit, this is bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What’s The Point of Playing Bass If Your Own Singer Doesn’t Even Care?

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set in the 2007 Honda Civic Tour, starting around the Las Vegas date and going on until after tour. More notes at the end of the story. Thanks to [](http://duendeoflorien.livejournal.com/profile)[**duendeoflorien**](http://duendeoflorien.livejournal.com/) and [](http://frek.livejournal.com/profile)[**frek**](http://frek.livejournal.com/) for reading and helping me out. Huge massive thanks to [](http://hyperfocused.livejournal.com/profile)[**hyperfocused**](http://hyperfocused.livejournal.com/) for catching my tense changes and for reading a story where she doesn't know any of the characters beyond me saying "Here's a picture—he's PRETTY!" Any mistakes are mine—feel free to point them out. Dedicated to [](http://femmequixotic.livejournal.com/profile)[**femmequixotic**](http://femmequixotic.livejournal.com/) for her birthday (er, four days ago), since it's all her fault I'm even here.
> 
> Originally posted on LJ on May 2, 2007.

Title: What’s The Point of Playing Bass If Your Own Singer Doesn’t Even Care?  
Author: [](http://supergrover24.livejournal.com/profile)[**supergrover24**](http://supergrover24.livejournal.com/)  
Summary: Patrick looks nervous and pissed off all at once, and Pete knows he's crossed some line right then, like he's moved from "good buddy if slightly overprotective" to "irrational asshole who may or may not have a drug problem" and shit, this is bad.  
Rating: R (for swearing, sadly)  
Word count: ~3400  
A/N: Set in the upcoming Honda Civic Tour, starting around the Las Vegas date and going on until after tour. More notes at the end of the story. Thanks to [](http://duendeoflorien.livejournal.com/profile)[**duendeoflorien**](http://duendeoflorien.livejournal.com/) and [](http://frek.livejournal.com/profile)[**frek**](http://frek.livejournal.com/) for reading and helping me out. Huge massive thanks to [](http://hyperfocused.livejournal.com/profile)[**hyperfocused**](http://hyperfocused.livejournal.com/) for catching my tense changes and for reading a story where she doesn't know any of the characters beyond me saying "Here's a picture—he's PRETTY!" Any mistakes are mine—feel free to point them out. Dedicated to [](http://femmequixotic.livejournal.com/profile)[**femmequixotic**](http://femmequixotic.livejournal.com/) for her birthday (er, four days ago), since it's all her fault I'm even here.

  
_G string--sounds almost right and if it weren't for the electronic tuner, you'd have no idea_

It’s cool, mostly. Mostly. Yeah, okay, it’s cool to watch Patrick talking shop with Mark Hoppus. It’s Mark Hoppus, man. Mark is like…like the Pete Wentz to Ryan Ross of Pete’s youth. Blink 182 is the reason Fall Out Boy made it, at least somewhat. And now Mark’s band is opening for his band.

It was fucking surreal.

And then there was Patrick. Trick had gotten to work with Mark on _Commit This to Memory_ , which was so fucking cool and so fucking unfair at the same time, but really, Patrick deserved it. He’s brilliant and talented and the whole world needs to know that, and really, it’s cool that Mark had Patrick working with him two years ago, back when the band still hadn’t hit it big. But now…

Now Patrick and Mark are sitting hunched over Trick’s laptop, messing around with something on GarageBand and totally ignoring him. Pete’s not pissed, exactly. Maybe a little. But come on, they’ve been sitting there for hours now (okay, two hours and twenty minutes and never has the trip from LA to Las Vegas taken so long) and Pete’s scribbled out five pages of words that mean nothing and he can’t figure out why it bothers him when Patrick laughs.

He pulls his hoodie up over his head and pushes himself back into the corner of the couch, knees bent, notebook open and pen in hand. Pete writes, but his eyes keep drifting over to the two of them, and he bites his lip hard enough to hurt when he notices Patrick’s thigh touching Mark’s under the table.

 

_D string--just a little bit flat, but not so much that it's bothersome_

Jon Walker really is pretty. Pete can admit that. Not in that overly girly way of Ryan's, or that pissy little bitch way that Spencer has. Brendon was just hot (and to be honest, reminded Pete a little of himself, which made him even hotter), but Jon Walker has this aura about him. He's laid back, with a great smile and he's tall. Sometimes Pete likes them tall, even if it means he can't borrow their jeans.

Right now, though, Pete wants to punch Jon Walker right in his pretty bearded face. Patrick and Jon are hanging out before their show at The Pearl starts, discussing their old Chicago days. Jon keeps reaching out to grab Patrick's 504 Plan hat and Patrick, of course, keeps slapping his hand away, but he's laughing as he does it and what the hell? Only Pete was allowed to try to remove Patrick's hat. Doesn't Jon know how sensitive Patrick is about his hair? _Bedussey_ was a fucking miracle (and Pete still can't quite figure out how he convinced Patrick to go along with that) but Pete really can't believe that he's watching Patrick let Jon even _touch_ the hat, much less take it off Patrick's head and put it on his own. What the fucking fuck?

Patrick just smiles at Jon wearing his hat, smiles and flushes a little, tilting his head down when Jon whispers in his ear. And then Patrick's laugh rings out, loud and echoing in the hotel room and Pete just can't fucking take it anymore and gets up.

"Pete, man, where you going?" Patrick looks up from whatever the fuck Jon is showing him and the smile fades from his face when he sees Pete's expression. Pete absolutely does not care.

"Out. Playboy Club, maybe. I just gotta get out of here." He starts shrugging on the black hoodie he grabbed from the chair in the corner while he walks to the door, feeling Patrick's eyes on him as he struggles to get his arms through the sleeves. Patrick comes up to him then, putting his hands on Pete's shoulders and helping him turn the sleeve right-side-out. Pete doesn't meet his eyes, doesn't want to see the laughter falling away as he worries, _again_ about Pete's mood.

"We have to be down there in three hours, you know," Patrick starts, but Pete just pulls away and stares at him for a second. "Yeah, okay. I'll see you then, man. I'll just...be up here with Jon and shit, yeah?"

Silent, Pete opens the door, letting it slam behind him when he hears Jon ask Patrick if Pete stole his old 504 Plan hoodie or if it was his own. Pete strips the hoodie off—Patrick's hoodie that he stole years ago--and tosses it in the maid's trash cart as he walks down the hall to the elevator, telling himself over and over that he does not care.

 

_A string--so fucking sharp it hurts your head and you kinda want to just cut the string off rather than trying to fix it_

There are people dancing around Pete, crammed into the spaces on the Cobra bus as they drink and smoke and work off the excess energy leftover from the show at The E. Most everyone is moving and talking, except Pete, who is leaning against the wall staring through the shifting bodies at Patrick and Gabe as they talk in a corner. Gabe's full of life, arms waving about as he talks and Patrick listens, a small grin appearing on his face every time Gabe almost spills his drink on someone. Pete wonders what they're talking about, even as he tells himself he doesn't care. He hopes that his apathy is apparent on his face, that his expression is showing his complete disdain for the situation.

Pete takes a drink from his water bottle every time he feels a scowl coming on.

He's on his third bottle of water since he got on the bus twenty minutes ago.

The music changes to something faster and somewhat familiar to Pete and he’s trying to figure out how he knows the song when his eyes catch sight of Gabe touching Patrick. Not just touching, no, but leaning into him, lips brushing over Patrick's ear as Gabe apparently has to _whisper_ something secret, something that can't be shouted over the frenetic beat of _Winter in Chicago_. Pete blinks, wondering if he's seeing things correctly, and suddenly Gabe is holding Patrick's _hand_ , pulling him out of the corner and heading toward the back of the bus. Pete watches them, eyes narrowing as Gabe opens the door leading to the bunks and before he knows what he’s doing, Pete’s across the bus and grabbing Gabe by his arm and slamming him against the wall with a loud "What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

Gabe (and Patrick)—the whole bus, really, shit—looks at Pete like he's crazy, and maybe he is, but he's not going to let Gabe _fucking_ Saporta take Patrick into the bunks to do whatever it is Gabe does back there. He's heard the rumors. Hell, he's seen the pictures all over the internet and he'll be damned if Patrick gets drawn into something like that. Fuck.

"Pete," Patrick starts, but then he stops and takes a breath. "Pete, seriously, what the hell?"

Patrick looks nervous and pissed off all at once, and Pete knows he's crossed some line right then, like he's moved from "good buddy if slightly overprotective" to "irrational asshole who may or may not have a drug problem" and shit, this is bad. He backs away from Gabe, looking at Patrick with what he hopes is a remorseful expression. There's nothing he could say that could possibly fix this.

Pete stammers out a faint _sorry_ to Gabe before he turns to push his way through the crowd toward the door. He can feel Patrick's hand trying to catch him and the heat of his grip on Pete's arm makes him shiver and wrench away. He's down the steps and halfway to his own bus when he hears Patrick calling his name, but he keeps going until he's tucked in his bunk, heart pounding, head swimming and his stomach burning.

This is so bad and he was right; he can't fix it.

 

_E string--so fucking flat it hurts your heart and makes you feel like dying_

Pete can only hear one side of the Patrick's conversation, and he doesn't even know who's on the other end of the line, but it feels like his throat is closing up and he wonders vaguely if he's suddenly allergic to brightly colored orange drinks or if maybe, just maybe, he's overhearing something so monumental in the life of Patrick that his body knows it should prepare to not to go on as it was before. The tour's ending in two days and Pete can't wait to go back to his house in LA, to lounge around with Hemingway, to do nothing for just a few days before the need to move kicks in again. Except...a week ago Pete thought he'd be doing nothing with Patrick, too. And Patrick just said to whoever that he thinks he needs to get away from it all and go to Chicago for a month or so and Pete knows in his gut that when Patrick says "it all" he means Pete.

They've barely talked since the disaster in Salt Lake City five days ago. Andy and Joe are walking on eggshells around them both, and their concerts have fucking sucked since Vegas. The blogs are ripping them apart and Perez Hilton has a pool going to determine which will come first, another Best Buy or the band breaking up and Pete would've laid money on the break-up of the band if he hadn't just heard Patrick say he was leaving.

Patrick is oddly full of energy today--Pete hears him moving around the lounge as he talks on the phone and he slips up to the door, prepared to say he's looking for his t-shirt or something in case he's caught eavesdropping. The door is only partially shut and he watches Patrick appear and disappear as he paces, quiet for the first time in the conversation. Pete wants to know who he's talking to, wants to break into the call to get whoever it is to tell Patrick to stay, not to leave the band, not to leave _him_ and that Pete's really sorry he's been such an idiot.

He holds his breath when Patrick stops walking, his profile just visible through the gap in the door. Patrick's face goes slack and just as Pete's about to break his silence and try to help him with whatever bad news he just got, Patrick closes his eyes.

"There's no way, man. You're wrong." Patrick stands there with his head bowed. "Pete's not--" Pete waits, wants to know what he's not. "He's not, Mikey, there's no way."

Pete exhales loudly, causing to Patrick to turn and stare at him. His wide eyes and "oh, _shit_ " expression would be comical if he hadn't just betrayed Pete in the one way he'd never thought Patrick would. Fucking _Mikey_. Anyone else, but Patrick went to Mikey and that's...Pete doesn't have words for how much he hates Patrick in this instant. It's worse than everything he's felt ever in his life combined and Pete wants nothing more than to run off this bus and never see him again, but they're somewhere on the I-5 and Pete's trapped.

"Mikey, I--fuck, Mikey, I gotta go." Patrick closes his phone, looking at him, waiting for him to do something or say something but he can't. Pete finally gets how he's been feeling the past few weeks. Years. Whatever. He feels like he's lost his best friend, favorite toy and his other half all at once.

After a minute of staring, Pete makes the hardest decision of his life.

"When the show's over on Monday, so're we. The band. Us." He holds up his hand to prevent Patrick from talking. "I mean it, Trick. I can't do this anymore." Pete closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them, Patrick's face is the palest he's ever seen it but Pete doesn't care. "I don't want to talk to you for the rest of the trip."

Pete turns, walking to his bunk, telling himself to hold it together for ten more fucking steps.

It's done.

 

_four open strings so perfectly in tune with each other that your head is spinning and your heart is beating fast and the sound the strings make when strummed reverberates through your entire body and you remember that_ this _is why you play_

Listening to _LAX to O'Hare_ on repeat because Patrick's flight took off three hours and fourteen minutes ago is probably not the smartest thing Pete does that day, but he can't think of a better way to mark the beginning of the rest of his life without Fall Out Boy. Without Patrick. He idly wishes that he still drank or smoked or _something_ because it's fucking Independence Day (well, it will be in ten minutes) and Pete feels like celebrating his new-found freedom with something harder and more dangerous than music and soda. Or maybe some pills--no. Pete's come too far and fuck it if he's going to ruin everything because of this.

(Even though, deep down, he kind of wants to; he wants to find that line between hospital and graveyard where Patrick will come back to him, guilty and begging for forgiveness.)

Whining, Hemingway jumps off of Pete's lap and goes to the sliding door leading to the backyard, tail wagging back and forth. Pete sighs, staring at the door, wishing _again_ that The Force was strong in him, but after a few seconds he gets up to take Hemingway out for one last walk before morning. He opens the door, flicking on the light as he goes outside and can only watch as the dog skids on the walkway to avoid running into someone sitting on the steps.

_Shit._

"Shouldn't you be preparing to land right now? Putting your tray in an upright position?" Pete sneers, kneeling next to Patrick and feeling ridiculously proud of how steady his hands are as he puts the leash on Hemingway, who's betraying him by standing on his hind legs, licking Patrick's face.

"I didn't get on. I _couldn't_ get on," Patrick pauses, running his hands over Hemingway's fur, stopping just as he gets to Pete's fingers. "I've been sitting here for hours, waiting for you to come out and seriously, fucking Beckett gets really annoying after a while."

"Yeah, you're not funny, Trick. Get off my fucking property." Pete tugs on the leash, pulling Hemingway down the steps to the grass at the edge of the property. He can't fucking believe Patrick's nerve, sitting on _his_ property like he belongs there, like Pete doesn't fucking hate him. Now Pete has to get the passcode to the gates changed and _damn it_ , of _course_ his own fucking dog won't cooperate and take forever, because it's too soon. He's so not ready to have this conversation. Hemingway is straining against his leash and Pete follows, hoping he can just get through this and go back inside with his heart intact.

Patrick is standing now, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. It's a look Pete's familiar with and he fights the urge hug Patrick, instead dropping to unhook Hemingway before pushing him into the house and shutting the door.

"The thing with Mikey, Pete," Patrick sighs. "I don't know what you thought it was, but it wasn't--"

Pete stands up abruptly, arms tense at his sides, fists clenched, just inches from Patrick's face and he feels a jolt of vicious satisfaction when Patrick steps back until he hits the door. "Don't fucking talk about _Mikey_ , Trick. This is all on you. I don't know what you've been thinking the past few weeks, with Mark and Jon and fucking _Gabe_ of all people, but _Christ_ , if you're that desperate--" Patrick pushes him hard and Pete stumbles back, almost falling on his ass except Patrick grabs the collar of his t-shirt and catches him. Pete tries to pull away, but Patrick twists both hands in Pete's shirt, trapping him there.

"Just fucking shut up for one fucking minute, will you?" Patrick yanks Pete closer and they stare at each other until Pete nods slightly. Patrick's grip lessens somewhat, but Pete stands still, waiting. "The past month, Pete, you just got quieter...and it was like I could see you getting smaller, going inside again, and it--it scared the _fuck_ out of me. I can't go through another Best Buy and I--no, shut up, _please_." Pete closes his mouth, but he can't look away from Patrick's face and those green eyes that Pete was sure he'd never see in person again.

"I emailed Mikey when we left Salt Lake City, told him that I was worried about you. He called, which you know, obviously, and I really didn't mean--"

"Patrick," Pete whispers. "Just...go on. It's fine."

Patrick bites his lip and Pete knows what's coming, can feel it in his very core, but he needs to hear it. It has to be said, and he makes a note to send Mikey and Alicia matching hoodies or something, one of a kind.

"He said that you were stronger than anyone he'd ever met, other than Gee, and that...that you were finally realizing what he knew for years and, _shit_." Patrick closes his eyes and Pete thinks it's close enough. He wraps his hands around Patrick's forearms, still resting against his chest, and leans in, slowly, so there's no way Patrick can't tell what he's about to do. He keeps his own eyes open, watching the worry lines on Patrick's face relax and his lips soften and _yes_ , this is how it's supposed to be.

Pete kisses Patrick, softly, lips just brushing against Patrick's mouth. He keeps it slow, practically innocent, but then Patrick exhales and the rush of breath on Pete's skin makes him moan low in his throat and when he feels Patrick's tongue flick out against his lips he can't stop himself from sucking Patrick's lower lip between his own. He loves the feel of this, the slightly chapped ridges catching on his tongue, and Pete tightens his grip on Patrick's arms. Their tongues slide against each other, finally, hot and wet, wanting more, and they move closer still, mouths opening wider, teeth clashing until Pete thinks they must look pornographic and he wonders if the security camera is getting this.

Patrick breaks free of his grasp suddenly and spins them, pushing Pete against the house.

"You think too much, Pete. Just--let go." Patrick presses into Pete, raising his arms over his head and god, the weight of Patrick holding him there, trapping him is the most freeing feeling and he can't remember ever being this turned on. Pete snaps his head forward, kissing Patrick again, harder this time, immediately forcing his tongue inside the wet heat of Patick's mouth. He can't taste anything special; it's not like he imagined so many times where Patrick had some undefinable flavor. It's just _Patrick_ , a little stale and sour and perfect and Pete never wants to stop kissing him, except--Pete wrenches away, quickly, their breaths heavy in the night.

"What now?" Patrick whines.

Pete smiles at how desperate he makes Patrick sound. He wants to hear that from now on.

"I just...well. I'm just gonna say this, Trick, and we can talk about it tomorrow, right?" He pauses and Patrick nods seriously. "I want the band, I want _us_ , and I want them both for however long we can keep it going. And tomorrow you can tell me the rest of your Mikey story and I'll fill you in on all the other shit, and just--" Patrick kisses him, hard and fast.

"Tomorrow. Can we just go to bed now, please? My back is fucking killing me from sitting out here all night."

Pete lowers his arms and winds his fingers with Patrick's, grinning for what has to be the first time since they got back from Europe. "Yeah, bed." Pete opens the door, shuts off the light and helps Patrick step over Hemingway sleeping at the foot of the stairs.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The genre on my iPod I affectionately call "emoboys" was on throughout the writing of this story. Specifically:  
>  \-- Let's Get It On: a live cover by Patrick Stump  
>  \-- Winter in Chicago: 504 Plan  
>  \-- LAX to O'Hare: The Academy Is…  
> 


End file.
